The Ice in the Ashes
by Here's2tomorrow
Summary: A little exploration of how a simple choice made at the moment of death can reshape past, present, and future for both the dying and the living. HP-focused, canon DP, AU HP, Independent!Intelligent!Harry, no main-character OCs, mostly canon pairings, no slash.
1. Prologue Part 1

**Author's Note:**

 **First off: I IS OWNING NOTHINGS! Except my clothes and my pillows. I'm pretty sure I own those. I think.**

 **Second off: I can't BELIEVE there isn't a story with this idea yet! If there is, then somebody please point me towards it, because I really wanted to read one. My current lack of one to read is, of course, why I am, instead, writing one. Lemme know what you think!**

* * *

"You, Daniel Fenton, are in a very unique situation."

The young man frowned up at his long-time mentor and friend.

"What do you mean, Clockwork?"

The pint-sized ghost gazed at him, serious and stern as always. "Every human being, when they die, can choose either to pass on immediately, or to tether their soul to this plane of existence as a ghost, dooming themselves to centuries of slow degradation in exchange for temporarily avoiding judgement."

Danny frowned. "What does that mean for me, since I'm already half-ghost? I wasn't exactly handed an options list when I died, or partly-died, or whatever, in the Fenton Portal…"

"And that is what makes your situation so unique," the Master of Time explained. "As a human, you still face the same choice that every human does. However, a portion of _your_ spiritual energy is already permanently tied to this plane – your ghost half, as you call it – and will likely be left behind if you, as a human soul, choose to move on."

The halfa mulled over this revelation for a moment, flexing and extending his fingers thoughtfully as he watched a set of blue rings of light run up and down his forearm, switching it back and forth between ghostly glove and human skin. "What will happen to _me_ , then? Will my… my soul, or whatever, be broken up between this world and the next? Part of me as a permanent ghost and part of me elsewhere, like with the Ghost Catcher incident? Or are you saying that my soul would move on and just leave… what? a random blob of energy or ectoplasm or something behind like a fingerprint?"

"To be perfectly honest, Daniel," Clockwork began, a glint of something almost like excitement flashing through his red eyes so quickly that Danny almost missed it, "I don't know."

Danny blinked at the grandfatherly figure and stuck a finger in one of his ears to clean it out because Clockwork couldn't have actually said what he thought he did. "What?"

The taller ghost dropped a blue-tinged hand to the young man's shoulder and guided him towards the door of the clock tower. "This, Danny Phantom, is a decision that you must make on your own. You have twenty-four hours, like every human."

Both men stopped in the doorway, and on impulse the younger turned and pulled the elder into a brief hug before sailing away across the expanse of green. The other watched him go.

"No, I don't know," he muttered. His shape flickered, then his mouth curved into a buck-toothed smile. "But I can guess."

* * *

All anyone really knew for sure was that the Dark Lord had vanished without a trace, and so had the young Potter boy. They left behind them only the curse-torn bodies of James and Lily Potter, two of the greatest heroes of the war, and the smoking ruins of the cottage where they had been hidden.

Despite the scarcity of solid, factual evidence, however, the wizarding world was quick to celebrate _The Daily Prophet_ 's declaration of Voldemort's death and Albus Dumbledore's declaration of little Harry Potter's survival and safe relocation. It would be many long years before any of them questioned their decision.

While wizards and witches across Europe congratulated themselves on cleaning up the remaining Death Eaters and finishing the work Harry Potter had started, the little boy himself lay tucked in a basket in a small broom cupboard, his wide, emerald eyes glowing dimly in the darkness.


	2. Prologue Part 2

**Author's Note:**

 **Thank you so much to everyone who followed and favorited on the first chapter/prologue! This is part two of the same; proper chapters pick up after this. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Prologue, Part Two**

 _The Surrey Times_

March 2nd, 1982

STRANGE SIGHTINGS IN SURREY!

By Dick Randon

Surrey residents were baffled yesterday by the appearance of a swirling green vortex, "like someone had ripped through the fabric of reality". The vortex materialized about six feet from the ground in the Little Winging children's park, at approximately 9:20 PM. As our witnesses, a Mr. Ernie Banks and a Miss Jenny Poppin, watched in horror, a dark figure resembling "a large, bipedal wolf with black fur and glowing green eyes, wearing a green hoodie," emerged partially from the vortex, seemed to sniff the air, and promptly vanished. The vortex closed behind him.

Is this sighting a hoax? An overzealous prankster? Local paranormal experts Dr. Jason and Danielle Grayson don't seem to think so. "There was more ecto-residue on the scene than we have ever seen before," Mrs. Grayson noted excitedly. "And the EMF reading was off the charts!" her husband added.

And what does that mean? According to the Graysons: "Ghosts. And probably a portal to the Ghost Zone, by the sounds of it."

Dr. and Mrs. Grayson advise residents to steer clear of the area for a while in case of a repeat of the phenomenon. "[Ghosts] are usually fairly harmless," Dr. Grayson assures us, "but if a portal is active, you never know what might come out. Better safe than sorry."

The Graysons have set up some of their equipment in the park with the intention of "studying the lingering energies" from the vortex until they fade completely.

For a photograph of this event, courtesy of Mr. Ernie Banks, along with a summary of similar events, see page 5.

* * *

 _The Quibbler_

June 23rd, 1985

SURREY GHOST CONSPIRACY CONTINUES

By Pandora Lovegood

A strange concentration of ghosts in the Little Winging area of Surrey has persisted for just over three years now, increasing dramatically since the first sighting in March of 1982. These ghosts, most of which belong to a rare and powerful race whose forms consist of ectoplasm rather than merely phantasmal energy, do not seem to hold any ill will toward the area residents, and never cause any damage. Many of them simply appear and wander the streets for a short period of time, seeming lost and confused, before vanishing again, presumably returning to their own plane of existence.

This reporter, however, dear readers, believes there is more to the appearances than meets the eye, and has boldly gone in search of answers. Interviews with some of the wizarding world's most well-known ghosts provided valuable insight to the strange actions of these ectoplasmic beings.

"They're up to something, obviously," says Friar Matthew, resident ghost of Hufflepuff House at Hogwarts. "I can only pray no one gets injured when their plans come to fruition."

But _what_ are they up to? "No good," according to Baron Raston, resident ghost of Slytherin House. Although he refrained from elaborating, Lady Helena, resident ghost of Ravenclaw House, had this to say: "These phantasms are almost never seen, especially here on the Isles. If they're appearing now, in such numbers, I can only speculate that it is an omen of dark and fearsome days ahead of us, whether by [the ectoplasmic ghosts'] hand, or by something they are privy to that we have yet to see. Only time will tell."

The advice given by Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington, resident ghost of Gryffindor House, is to "keep a wary eye out, and prepare for anything. Perhaps confront these specters, try to ascertain who or what they are conspiring against or with, and why."

Stay tuned, readers, for your faithful journalist intends to do just that.

* * *

 _The Daily Prophet_

November 2nd, 1987

HARRY POTTER: TRAGEDY AND MYSTERY

By Rita Skeeter

Tragedy strikes the wizarding world as Albus Dumbledore, aging Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, reveals recent happenings in the life of the savior of the wizarding world, Harry Potter, now seven years old. The orphan's whereabouts have remained unknown since the terrible and wonderful night of October 31st, 1981; Dumbledore had spirited the child away to safety, beyond the reaches of You-Know-Who's followers.

Or so we believed.

Two nights ago, the muggle house where it has been revealed that little Harry Potter was living, exploded into flames of sickly green, completely destroying the house and damaging several others on the street. Yesterday morning, the ruins, frost-dusted in the chill air but still sending up intermittent puffs of smoke and ash, bore an eerie resemblance to the Potters' home in Godric's Hollow on the morning of November 1st, 1981. Three bodies were pulled from yesterday's wreckage, continuing the parallel, but unlike that day six years ago, none of the bodies were a young, living Harry Potter. Instead, these were muggles – Harry Potter's maternal aunt, uncle, and young cousin, all burned to death.

Despite the duplication of the first Potter tragedy and the unusual appearance of the green flames, there is so far no confirmed magical involvement with the deaths of Harry Potter's remaining family. Investigation continues as the mysteries remain unsolved. Who, or what, is behind this new tragedy? Did Albus Dumbledore, Defeater of Grindlewald, not anticipate such an occurrence? Why was Harry Potter placed in a vulnerable muggle home? Most importantly, is Harry Potter still alive? And if so…

 _Where is Harry Potter now?_


	3. Chapter 1

The morning of September 1st, 1991 dawned grey and unseasonably chilly over Scotland, where, in a chair in an office in a tower in a castle that remained unplottable to the day it fell, sat an old, old man whose mood matched the weather. He was holding a long roll of parchment, thumbing it through his hands until he stopped near the bottom. The only indication of the repetitiveness of this motion was two light smudges exactly where his fingers always came to rest. His eyes skimmed the words for the thousandth time.

 **Student Name:** _Harry Potter;_ **Birthdate:** _July 31_ _st_ _, 1980;_ **Hogwarts Start Date:** _Sep. 1_ _st_ _, 1991;_ **Current Year Group:** _First;_ **House:** _TBD;_ **Tuition Status:** _Paid in full, Aug. 5_ _th_ _, 1980._

 **Grades:** _N/A_

 **Other Schooling Records (Points, Awards, Detentions, Hospital Visits):** _N/A_

 **Other Notes: **_No acceptance letter response recorded. Acceptance letter mailed on June 15_ _th_ _, 1991, to address: Mr. Harry James Potter. Read Receipt charm activated._

The lined face pinched into a dissatisfied frown. When he had quietly retired from his government positions almost four years ago to avoid an outcry, he had hoped the extra time it afforded him would allow him to solve the Harry Potter mystery and absolve himself in the eyes of the public. He glanced distastefully at the _Daily Prophet_ article that hung in a frame beside his desk under a heavy disillusionment charm; it was there for the sole purpose of being a daily reminder of one of his biggest mistakes. The only one he had yet to find a solution for.

For, even four years and countless investigations later, the world had yet to decipher what, exactly, had happened at the Dursley residence on Halloween 1987. It was the most attention the wizarding world had ever given the deaths of a family of muggles. Theories abounded as to what had become of the young Harry Potter, and rumours of sightings surfaced almost monthly, despite all descriptions of the boy's physical appearance being pure speculation based on memories of his parents.

When Harry Potter's name had remained on the Hogwarts Student Register, Dumbledore's spark of hope was kindled, and despite his years of dedicated searches leaving him emptyhanded, in the back of his mind he had always been waiting patiently for Hogwarts to send out her Acceptance Letters, sure that the magic of the castle which addressed each envelope would not fail him.

It had.

How a letter could be sent, received, and read by the intended recipient, when there was, apparently, no definitive place to send it to, the Headmaster had no idea, but he blamed it on the school. Hogwarts _knew_ stuff.

Which is why this particular morning found Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, gazing pensively at the clear, black script on the parchment and hoping against hope that somehow, someway, Harry Potter would walk through the doors of the school that evening to be sorted with all the other new students. He couldn't have guessed how appropriate his wording was.

* * *

Whispers, whispers, always whispers. He _hated_ whispers! Scowling darkly, he leaned against the cool stone wall, arms crossed over his chest as he watched the other first-years interact. With several minutes left before the sorting was to begin, the new students took advantage of being all squeezed into one small area to exchange the gossip each clique had separately partaken of while on the train. At least eighty-five percent of it pertained directly to Harry Potter; was he alive, and would he be there, and where had he been, and what house would he be in, and if he was alive and coming why wasn't he on the train, and what did he look like, and what really happened on Halloween '87, and what about Halloween '81, and on and on and on.

He didn't hate whispers. He _despised_ them.

A handful of transparent ghosts floated through one of the walls, talking about someone named Peeves. One of them, a short, portly fellow, noticed the huddle of first-years and exclaimed in delight. A moment later, a taller ghost noticed him leaning against the wall, and the ghost's eyes widened. He tugged on one of his companions' sleeves and began herding them back through the wall, already pointing over his shoulder and whispering.

He _seethed._

Finally, mercifully, the door opened and Professor McGonagall was ushering them through into the Great Hall, where the whispers turned into murmurs of awe, nervousness, and excitement. The children "oohed" and "ahhed" in all the right places as the Sorting Hat was introduced and sang about the Hogwarts Houses. By the time the last name was called, he was feeling rather underwhelmed by the whole process.

Realizing that one child was still left standing, McGonagall approached him and crouched slightly to look him in the eye, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I'm afraid my list didn't include you… What is your name, lad?" she asked, not unkindly.

"I'm sorry, Professor," he said sincerely, "I didn't have access to an owl with which to send my reply. I hope I haven't caused too much trouble… My name's Harry Potter."

To her credit, McGonagall simply blinked for a minute, her face a couple shades paler than before. Then she straightened, wiping her free hand, which was trembling slightly, across her eyes. She smiled warmly at the tall, healthy-looking boy in front of her, allowing a brief moment for her hungry gaze to scan him head to toe, taking in his clean, tidy clothing, his unobscured bright green eyes, and his windswept shock of pure white hair.

Then she said, emotively, "Welcome to Hogwarts, Harry Potter." She picked up the Sorting Hat and gestured to the now-empty stool and Harry smiled at her before taking a seat, grateful that she hadn't caused a scene. She placed the Hat on his head. He waited.

" _Well that's interesting,"_ the Hat commented to him after a moment.

" _I know."_

The Hat seemed to arch a metaphorical eyebrow. _"Do you, now? I wonder…"_

Harry was silent, letting the Hat do its work.

" _Quite the secret-keeper, aren't you, young one,"_ it asked rhetorically. _"Plenty of bravery, though… Loyal and hard-working? Perhaps… Intelligence… Yes… Hmm… Why don't_ you _take a look, young one? Where do_ you _feel you should be?"_

The boy followed the Hat's advice and opened his eyes, scanning the House tables laid out before him. He considered each for a moment, carefully observing its occupants. Then he sighed.

" _None of them are exactly right,"_ he told the Hat, though he suspected it already knew. _"But out of them… better be Gryffindor, I guess."_

" _A good choice, young one,"_ the Hat commended, then it shouted his new House for the entire school to hear.

* * *

That evening as he crawled into bed, Harry decided that, although the castle was pretty neat and the food was amazing, he was reserving judgement on his new roommates, let alone the rest of the school's inhabitants. Based on the wizard's opening speech, he was pretty sure the Headmaster had gone at least a bit senile. The old man had stared hard at him throughout most of dinner after Professor McGonagall exchanged excited words with the staff, but had followed her lead in refraining from making a scene.

Not that it would have mattered much; the whispers had taken up immediately once Harry introduced himself to the Housemates he sat down beside. Thankfully, most of the students seemed too shy, or else too gobsmacked, to actually question him. The few braver ones were quickly deterred when he turned his "scary eyes" on them. It wouldn't last, he was sure, but at least he got to eat his dinner in relative peace.

He curled up and pulled his covers to his chin, emerald eyes glinting in the dark as he gazed at the curtains around his bed. Stares and whispers he could deal with; he had before. Tomorrow… tomorrow would bring new challenges.


	4. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: As mentioned in my other story, I am so sorry (I am so, so sorry), but yes, this is probably going to be the typical rate of updates. There's this thing called Real Life, see, and it devours all my energy into a bottomless black hole...**

* * *

Harry slipped into an alcove, faded from the visible spectrum, and gave a great, gusty sigh of relief. Not three hours into his first day of school, and he was already miserable. He had promised himself he would not allow himself to be bothered by the staring, the whispering, and any blatant favoritism or hatred that was thrown his way, but that didn't make it easy. After all, whatever else he was, he was still just a kid.

No longer subject to interruptions, he slipped back into the hallway and continued to his first class, dodging the now fantastically oblivious students in his path. Arriving at the classroom with several minutes to spare, he ducked into another alcove, then strode visibly through the door and selected a spot for himself near the middle of the rows, laying pen and parchment at the ready and pulling out his transfiguration textbook to skim again while he waited. Professor McGonagall, sitting behind her desk, nodded slightly in approval.

When the lesson started, Harry quickly found his new head of house to be a strict, but engaging teacher, giving background for the day's work in a concise and easy-to-understand manner before wandering among the rows of desks, offering gentle advice to struggling students and quiet praise where due. For Harry's part, his attempts at transfiguring his matchstick into a needle produced… fascinating results. His object was no longer a matchstick, but although it was the approximate size and shape of a needle, it had a vaguely crystalline structure and a green tinge. He raised an eyebrow in interest and glanced up to find McGonagall watching over his shoulder with a matching expression.

"I have never seen quite that result, Mr. Potter," she commented. "If this object had an eye, however, it would, indeed, be a needle, albeit not a traditional one. Remember to hold your desired result in your mind as clearly as possible when performing the spell, including as many sensual observations as possible. For example, not only what a needle looks like, but what it feels like, acts like, weighs, and so on. Three points to Gryffindor for your progress."

Harry nodded and thanked her, and by the end of the class period he had successfully transfigured his matchstick into an apparently metal needle and earned two more points, and if his needle glinted slightly more green than silver, no one mentioned it.

His second class of the day, Charms, followed the same vein. The diminutive Professor Flitwick had squeaked and teetered on his stack of books when he reached Harry's name in his roll call, but recovered quickly. The students' first foray into this branch of magic was a simple color-changing charm which they were to aim at a blank scrap of parchment. On his third try, Harry's parchment turned bright green. He frowned. After nearly an hour's frustration, the only other color he'd managed was bright blue.

During lunch, which Harry had considered avoiding altogether, Harry's efforts at remaining unnoticed and unbothered were spectacularly thwarted. One of his roommates, a "Ron" Weasley, had plopped himself down beside Harry at the Gryffindor table and proceeded with lunch, talking at Harry the entire time as if they had been best friends for years. Another of his fellow first-year Gryffindors, Hermione Granger, appeared a couple minutes later, and blatantly interrupted Harry's reluctant but vaguely enjoyable participation in a conversation regarding quidditch to introduce herself.

Mr. Weasley glared at Miss Granger and pointedly ignored her, talking louder to drown her out. Harry sighed, allowed Weasley to finish his sentence, then turned deep green eyes on Granger.

"Was there something you needed?" he asked, polite but distant.

Granger floundered for a moment, but collected herself. "Oh… I just wanted to meet you," she explained. "I've read all about you, see, and some of the things didn't make much sense. I was hoping you might clear up some questions I had."

"Sorry," Harry said flatly, "I don't do interviews." He raised an eyebrow at the girl. "Did you even _consider_ that your topic of choice might be a painful one to me? No, of course not. If you'll excuse me, I _was_ in the middle of a conversation." And with that, he turned his back to her and resumed his assessment of the Chudley Cannons current line-up versus the Holyhead Harpies.

No sooner had he done so, however, than another voice spoke up behind him.

"You know, Potter, you _do_ have the option to associate with far more… _respectable_ company."

Harry turned, finding a slender blond in Slytherin robes standing a couple feet away on the other side of the table, apparently having stopped on his way to his own house table.

"Besides," he continued, " _both_ of those teams are rubbish. Everyone knows that." The boy proffered a hand. "Draco Malfoy."

Harry made a snap assessment and leaned over the table to accept the handshake, ignoring Weasley's sputtering. "You're welcome to join us, if only to explain that _blasphemous_ statement," he offered good-naturedly.

Both of the blond's eyebrows shot up, and he hesitated. "You want me to _sit_ with… you?"

"Sure!" Harry shrugged. "There's plenty of room, and you're a quidditch fan! A different opinion could provide some interesting insight to our conversation. Who knows?" Harry added, inspecting the dirt under his fingernails innocently, "We might even convince you to give away Slytherin team secrets."

Weasley's indignant and horrified stammers silenced abruptly, replaced with an intrigued and calculating expression. Harry smiled to himself.

"Malfoy," he introduced, "this is Ron Weasley. Weasley, Draco Malfoy. Now what was it you were saying about the Harpies and the Cannons?" he reminded the stunned Slytherin.

When Malfoy sat down across from them and almost shyly began waxing eloquent on the wizarding world's favorite topic, Harry didn't miss how both the Gryffindor and the Slytherin heads of house's eyes were glued to the three boys. Their expressions, along with those of several other occupants of the head table, matched Weasley's almost exactly, and Harry filed his observation away for further pursuing during a later, more private moment.

Perhaps it was Harry's apparently fascinating display at lunch, or perhaps it was something else entirely, but the Potions Master, Head of Slytherin Professor Snape, seemed strangely pensive all throughout the first years' afternoon class. When he reached Harry's name on his roster, the tall man, who reminded Harry of nothing so much as a brewing storm cloud, had merely paused, and gazed at him searchingly for a brief moment.

"I _do NOT_!" Professor Snape iterated sharply after calling the final name, startling them all to immediate attention. He cast his gaze across the room and looking each student in the eye one at a time, green-decked and red alike, "I do _not,_ " he repeated softly and slowly, precise as a needle and deadly as a dagger,"tolerate unfairness or foul play of _any sort_. I do not care who you are… or where you are from… what house you are in… or what you _think_ you know. In this classroom, I reign supreme, and my word is law. Potionsmaking is an art. A craft. Mastery of it requires dedication… concentration… and above all, strict and complete attention to and obedience of _every detail_ of instruction. Failure to _pay ATTENTION,"_ he snapped, zeroing in dangerously on one foolish student who had let his eyes wander, " _will_ result in injury, disfigurement, and _death_. I _will not_ hesitate to expel _any_ student who chooses to behave in any manner which threatens the safety of themselves or their classmates."

"That being said," he continued, straightening to tower over the first rows of students and crossing his arms over his chest forebodingly, "the first several weeks of classes will focus solely on basic precautions in potionsmaking, as well as the importance of appropriate tools and proper preparation of ingredients. I will expect a detailed essay on each topic before any student is allowed to begin brewing. _If_ any of you _feel_ you should be allowed to move on with your studies early… you may submit the essays at any time. _All three_ must receive an outstanding grade for your studies to be accelerated. _Are there any questions?"_

The way the professor spoke made it perfectly clear that attempting to win the accelerated classwork would be all but suicide. Harry grinned, all white teeth and white hair and dauntless green eyes in between. He was entirely unbothered. Professor Snape met his eyes. Challenge made – challenge accepted.

As they left the classroom, Harry grinned at Ron and gave a trembling Neville Longbottom – another of his roommates – a supportive slap on the back, nearly toppling the smaller boy. Ron glanced at him sideways.

"What has you so cheery?" he demanded. He wasn't trembling, but his freckles were definitely standing out a bit more than usual.

Harry's grin didn't waver, but he turned to face Ron fully and this time perhaps the red-head _did_ tremble a little. "Nothing," Harry replied casually, swinging his bookbag over his shoulder, "just off to do some studying. Care to join?"

"No thanks, mate," Ron said, shaking his head quickly. "I'm about fried. I was thinking Exploding Snap in the common room. See you at supper, though?"

"Sure," said Harry amiably. "Neville?"

"S-sorry, Harry, I'm with Ron on this one…"

"No prob." Harry peered at the boy in mild concern. "You sure you shouldn't maybe visit the hospital wing; ask Madam Pomphrey for some calming draught?"

Ron glanced at him as well, and Neville squirmed under their combined gazes. "You know, Harry's right," Ron agreed, "you do look terrible."

Neville shrugged and stared determinedly at his feet. "I-I'll be fine."

"Seriously, mate," Harry insisted, "you look like you're about to puke. The hospital wing's on my way to the library; I'll walk with you."

Neville looked up at him in relief. "You sure? I-I mean, I don't want to be a bother."

"No bother at all," Harry said honestly. "Like I said, I'll be passing there anyway."

"Thanks," the boy sighed wholeheartedly. "You're probably right; a calming draught might do me some good. Professor S-snape is…" he shuddered again, unable to satisfactorily voice his feelings.

Malfoy caught up with them and glanced at Neville with vague interest as Harry shrugged. "I didn't think he was that bad, honestly. I think he's just… _really intense._ All a matter of perspective, I guess. He's right about the safety thing, though; carelessness could get someone killed."

Ron eyed him askance. "You're going to try for the acceleration thing, aren't you."

"'Course I am," Harry said nonchalantly.

"I will, too," Malfoy commented. "My father's taught me loads about potions already, so I'd be bored to tears sitting through all the basic stuff."

"Good," Harry said cheerfully, "then you can help me study!"

Ron shook his head sadly and gazed at Harry and Malfoy as if watching a funeral procession. "You're bonkers, mate. Both of you."

"'Course I am," Harry agreed, and they continued down the corridor, arguing good-naturedly, with Neville in the middle and Harry a little bit in front. They all went with Neville to the hospital wing. They all went with Harry to the library. They all went with Ron to supper. They all went with Draco to Professor Snape for study materials. They didn't all decide these things out loud, and none of them questioned it. They simply went.

Though they could not have known it then, it was to be the forerunner of many, many such evenings at Hogwarts. And for the first time in a very long time, Harry Potter was happy.


End file.
